Nothing is Original in an Original Character
by kkolmakov
Summary: Thorin Oakenshield and (yet again) my OC Wren are being cruelly dragged through the most overused tropes in fanfiction. Will the characters resist, or will they play by rules? Pretense marriage, nanny Jane Eyre style, princess and bodyguard, it's all here! If you've felt slight nausea reading it, you will find it in this story. Add an appropriate emoticon here
1. Prologue

**My darlings, this story will be a SPOOF! **

**As spoofy as they make them! **

**The idea of the setup belongs to ****Cassandrala****, check out her page for her story "How To Wreck a Mary Sue."**

**Wren as an OC is a self-aware entity here, and together with Thorin she gets to surf the diversity of verses written for them. **

**Or not...**

* * *

**Prologue **

**{because many think you need one, although most proper writers say anything that happens before your protagonist enters the scene is completely irrelevant. The author of this one can't judge, kkolmakov after all is no Margaret Atwood}**

"I don't recognize this place..." Wren twirled her head, trying to understand which AU it was, after all Thorin and her had previously ended up in more than a hundred, and suddenly Thorin groaned near her.

"You won't, Wren. It's not technically a place… It's a dump," his voice was endlessly irked, and Wren threw him a confused look.

"Darling, that is a wee bit harsh... I can't say this place is Ritz but still..." She looked around a small room. The walls were covered in book shelves, old volumes, shabby looking and dusty, there was a desk with a laptop from eighties, and a lot of empty mugs littering the desk with dried up liquid on the bottom. Wren leaned in and sniffed. Earl Grey, double bergamot, lots of cream, lots of honey. There were empty bags from pretzels and bowls that obviously used to contain popcorn, judging by the unpopped kernels and unpleasant looking butter stains stuck to their bottoms.

"It is the trope dump, the most depressing corner of a fanfiction writer's mind. None of them wants to come here, but they all do." Thorin visibly shivered, disdainfully brushed the pretzel bags, some still half full, off an old crooked li-lo near the wall, and plopped on it with an annoyed noise.

"You mean… We are not in an AU..." The horror of their situation was finally reaching Wren's understanding. Her eyes widened, and Thorin mournfully shook his head. "But I expected us to end up in one of the stories… There is the Hogwarts one, it has reached its mid-story-I-just-want-my-babies-to-be-happy-for-a-bit happy ending!" Her voice was squeaky, and Thorin dropped his head. "We are seventeen there, I liked that story!" Low grumbling in Khuzdul was her answer. She heavily sat down near Thorin and sniffled. "But… but… We are good characters, I am a redhead of course, they always pair you with redheads, and not a Dwarf, but at least I'm not SPECIAL!" CapsLock was clearly heard in Wren's voice. "And you are basically classics of English literature! Why dump us here?" She threw him a pleading look, and he shrugged.

"Maybe the writer has reached their limit. No more ideas… Maybe they are stressed at work, or home… Who knows..." Thorin leaned back and slightly thumped his head to the wall behind him. "Now we will have to go through all that rubbish, like 'forced to pretend they are married and actually fall in love' setup..." Wren pressed her hands to her mouth, her face pallid, eyes twice the normal size.

"Oh no… It can't be… Thorin, it can't!" She stretched her hands to him in an overdramatic plea. "I am sure they can't do it to us! No, of course not," she energetically shook her head, her overused in fanfiction copper curls jumping around her face. "There was a Star Trek crossover that was supposed to be written next! The steampunk AU! There is the sequel to that tragic Middle Earth one where I tried to build my life with another bloke, but them still came back to you, and we had Thror! No way we are to endure this conundrum now!" Her voice was getting angry.

"How do I know?" The King Under the Mountain pouted completely out of character. "I also expected the sequel, it has two intertwined narratives there! The second story was about Dain, and readers love Dain!" Paternal pride clearly sounded in Thorin's voice.

"Oh my beautiful boy, of course readers love him! He is magic!" For a second Wren forgot the despair of soon being forced into 'there was only one room left in the hotel, and there is only one bed in it' scenario. "And again, why not put us into that Greek mythology and Norse mythology crossover? It's on hiatus, surely it can be renewed! And it has Loki in it..." The moment Wren realised the amount of dreaminess in her tone, it was a moment too late. Thorin narrowed his eyes at her, and she chewed on her lip in the habit described in every bloody story they were in. "Anyroad, what I mean…" She cleared her throat although people rarely did it in real life. "There are plenty of stories for the author to finish, to say nothing of that main story, where you are dead and I see you in my dreams, it has about five or six chapters left, and readers are in frenzy..."

"Of course they are!" Thorin interrupted in irritation, "I just died in it! Again! Literally bled out the second time around! What the actual bleep?!" The King froze with his mouth half open and stared at his beloved. "Did I just say 'bleep'?"

"Oh Rassilon help me, it's worse than we thought!" Wren wailed, "It's T rated!" Thorin swayed and grabbed handfuls of his silken dark locks in a gesture that men only made in fanfiction.

"Mahal be my saviour, it's not even smut?!" Wren loudly sobbed for no particular reason. Probably to increase the drama in the scene. Thorin flared the nostrils of his noble distinguished nose, let's face it, the nose was glorious. Or should one say... majestic? Semicolon, right bracket. "I am starting to warm up to the idea of me being dead. At least in that story we had a companion piece where we got to yoo-hoo..."

"Oh for bunnies and ducklings sake, are they going to censor every word of ours?" Wren hissed in irritation.

"¿Qué he hecho yo para merecer esto?" Thorin groaned.

"What?! Now you speak Spanish?" Wren asked and battered her lashes, although she actually never did. It looked daft, but she needed to show him and the readers that him speaking foreign language and rolling his r's made her very, very aroused.

"No, I don't," Thorin growled, as he always did because comparison with an animal always worked on the nether regions of the readers, and let's face the writer themselves. By the way, the author is female, previous syntax and grammar were for the sake of demonstrating their ardent feminist views. "It is the title of Pedro Almodovar's 1984 film, the author is trying to show off their European education and sophisticated tastes."

"Butterflies and daisies her European education and sophisticated tastes!" Wren spat out. "I want to go to a proper story…"

A soft creak from the door in the opposite wall interrupted the healer's enraged spiel. Soft mysterious light, as it's never described as just 'light,' was streaming through the opening, and Wren loudly gulped. Insert comparison with Jerry the Mouse, without saying it directly because that would just be bad taste.

The unexpectedly hot Dwarf and the OC exchanged heavy hopeless looks, got up and plodded sadly to the door. It was time for trope номер один. The author was bilingual and couldn't help themselves.

* * *

_Wren and Thorin will be back after the first horrid adventure in the world of overused FF tropes to lick their wounds and express their disdain before venturing into the next one._


	2. Jane Eyre in Denim

**Trope 1**

**{Poor nanny in a mansion of a privileged family}**

**Modern AU**

* * *

"Well, that is unexpected..." Thorin mumbled giving himself a long studying look in a tall mirror of an extravagant salon of an eighteenth century mansion in Northern England.

"Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha… ha-ha-ha!"

"Wren, I honestly do not see anything funny..."

"Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!..." Tears were rolling down Wren's cheeks, she was literally rolling on the antique Persian carpet in perfect condition, flailing her delicate, predictably 'surprisingly sexy' ankles.

"Wren, could you please?.." Thorin's voice was grumpy, and she rolled on her stomach and still chuckling quietly, whatever it actually sounded like in real life, she licked her lips.

"I have to say the apron is really doing it for me, Thorin," she purred and wiggled her eyebrows suggestively, which didn't require specification because there wasn't any other reason to perform this rather laborious gesture.

"Wren," the six foot five man, a major improvement from all the prosthetics and scaling if you asked him, growled at her. "I am help!" He gestured all over his simple tee that of course underlined his pectoral muscles, thank you Wikipedia for the terms, 'simple but elegant' denim and the aforementioned apron.

"You are not help!.." New waves of giggles were approaching Wren, "You are… Oh god… I can't breathe… You are a nanny!.." Wren's perfectly coiffed head fell down on the carpet with a dull thud, once again as if there were any other thuds, and she was snorting loudly. A few curls of course escaped the do, as a symbol of her freedom loving, feisty character, and for the sake of one of them alluringly brushing at her long elegant neck. She was dressed in… which mattered not, but many readers would be into reading about clothes they couldn't afford, and/or had nowhere to wear, and/or abhorred as ardent feminists… in an immaculate Chanel trousers suit, several necklaces of giant Japanese pearls around her neck, because she was and always would be… no, not "your friend, Jim," but a Chanel girl. Even her Middle Earth counterpart, according to the Pinterest board, wears Chanel Pre-Fall 2013. Oh wait, we are off the topic. Back to the carpet.

Her tiny, once again sexy feet, common trope for this particular pairing, in adorable flats dangled in the air, and she made a few more adorable noises. Basically, she was being adorable. Adorably.

"And you are an heiress, which is disclosed in our first lines," Thorin groaned. "I say 'But I am not good enough for you, I am just help and you are the heiress of the whole cotton industry in the region,' and that's the allusion to that BBC series and all readers smile." Thorin jerked off the cursed arpon, and Wren made an unhappy noise.

"Common, keep it! It is supposed to be strangely arousing to me, and I am supposed to fantasise about that bow on your bum." She giggled, and he rolled his eyes.

"It's a T rated fic, Wren, you are allowed to fantasize, but after 'their lips found each other and their arms wrapped around each other,' the best we can hope for is 'she woke up in his arms, sated and warm...'"

"Oh yeah?" Wren suddenly rose on all four and started slowly crawling to him. Slight panic spilled on his face. Cue description of the thick black beard and blazing blue eyes. Glacial, yes, glacial blue eyes.

"Wren, what are you..? T rated, Wren… Stop doing the Dirty Dancing moves and wiggling your delicious perky... uhem..." He made a terrified step back from her.

"Oh lover boy..." She sing-songed, and he made another clumsy step back, the edge of the eighteenth century fainting couch cut him under his calves, and he landed on it with an oomph. Onomatopoeia's lame but even Tolstoy used it.

"Put that apron back, and I will bleepity bleep you into oblivion in a companion M rated piece," Wren's eyes were burning, and he gulped inconsistently with his character, because it was actually her gesture.

"Wren, there is a bleeping drama in this fic, remember?" He was still resisting, though the look down the round cut of her champagne coloured ickle jacket was not helping. "I am a nanny to your daughter from another puffed up rich bleep, and we are bad match… And your family forces you into marrying him..."

Wren by then had reached his knees and her deft fingers ran up his thighs. He took a loud hissing breath in.

"T rated, Wren..." That was obviously his last attempt.

"Oh shush, you are well aware that the plot in such stories is so forced that even the most angst starved readers would cringe. There is never a single reason for the plot to drag on, and the solution is on the surface every bleeping time. How about I don't marry the toff bleep bleep, marry you, you of course have some hidden brilliant talent, like you are a painter or have a talent for cotton industry management, depending on how much effort the author wants to make in Google and whether she wants to research the rivers and streams descending from the Pennines and Rossendale moorland required for the industry to flourish. Oh look at that, she does have no life..." Wren got momentarily distracted from clawing at the hips of the unnaturally enamoured with her man, who was panting, his enticing well defined chest heaving. She shook her head in disbelief at what those FF writers waste their time on and focused on the hyperventilating male under her hands again. "Back to the point. So you will turn out to be a better businessman than me against all current feminist views, and we will make plenty of babies..."

"Four, we always make four babies..."

"Sure, whatever," Wren didn't allow him to change the course of the conversation, "And it will all be neat and conveniently romantic. So can we just skip it all and proceed to bleeping?"

"Oh god yes," he breathed out…

* * *

"_Bleep it." _

_Thorin and Wren once again found themselves on the li-lo in the Overused Tropes Room, from now on called OTR, and Thorin repeated, "Bleep it. Bleep the rating and bleep the bleeping cliffies."_

"_Well, at least it was short. And we now know how to get out of these dreadful scenarios." Wren stretched her legs and fished out a pretzel from the nearest bag, "Now what, my lambkins? What's the next prompt? Princess and bodyguard? Arranged marriage? Pretense marriage? Leave your ideas in your reviews. And also," Wren crunched with gusto, "Any characters from any fandom are welcome in this madness. You can request anyone you want, I suggest you go for a certain Brit..."_

"_Loki again?" Thorin snarled through gritted teeth, of course, and Wren gave him an innocent smile._

"_I meant Sir Ian McKellen, my heart."_

"_Like bleep you did," Thorin snatched a petzel from her fingers and stuffed it behind his cheek, all his temporarily Dwarven body expressing the degree of his aggravation._

"_Ladies are welcome too. Zoe Washbourne for example," Wren licked her lips in anticipation, and Thorin grabbed some worn out cushion and smacked himself to the face._

"_Can I request one?" He mumbled from under it._

"_No, the readers are the boss here, and if I were you I wouldn't hope for Natasha Romanoff..." Wren gave it a thought, "Though I wouldn't object..."_

_All Thorin could do was groan._

* * *

**_A/N: Darling dearreader, yes, li-lo (also known as lie-low) is most definitely a futon :D I am just used to my London friends calling it this way, and I think the word appears in BBC Sherlock, but then I showed a picture of a li-lo to my American speaking husband and he said, "Yes, it is a futon" :) So here you go :)_**


	3. Cheater or Trickster?

**Trope 2**

**{Cheating that is one big misunderstanding}**

**Modern AU**

* * *

Thorin found himself in a stylish spacious London flat. He knew it was in London since the first thing he saw in front of himself was a large window and a cheery doubledecker rushing by.

"Pretentious bleep," Thorin grumbled. "She doesn't even live in UK anymore, I bet there are no doubledeckers in Canada."

There was a slight noise from outside the room, and Thorin had a cowardly thought that he would be punished by his rebellion. He wondered what he would find in the next room for his little quip.

The payback came faster and more painfully than he thought. A large Yellow Pages book fell off the nearest shelf, thumping his shoulder, and he yelped. It flopped on the floor, pages rustled, and a booklet slid out of it. "Domo Double Decker Bus in Assiniboine Zoo in Winnipeg, Manitoba!" the booklet said, showing a jolly photo of the bus. Thorin growled and gave the book a kick.

The noise came again, and giving in to his destiny of the occasional comic relief, in his own stories, by the way, he plodded to the door. He walked through a once again spacious parlour, with obviously authentic Kandinski on the wall, which he personally wouldn't be able to tell from a drawing of a five year old, and doubted the author could.

The door where the noises came from was closed, and he apathetically pushed it. What was worse than being stuck in yet another AU?

The room was dimly lit, it was clearly a bedroom, with a King sized bed, and all he could see was a form of a large man spread on it on his back, and a naked back of a petite woman. Moving. The movements and the sounds she was making are emitted here for the rating purposes.

Thorin saw red. Literally. Everything swam in some manky crimson haze, including the bouncing curls of the woman on the bed, and two large paws groping the small buttocks, and Thorin's hand flew to the scabbard on his back.

His palm brushed the soft cashmere of his stylish, unnecessarily described dark navy jumper. Obviously, Orcrist wasn't there, but surely he could break the man's neck with his bare hands!

"Thorin?" Wren's voice came from his right, and his body jolted.

He slowly turned to his usual pairing. The crimson haze stepped away, and he quickly looked her over. She was dressed in a pair of baggy denim and a cute stripy top. And yes, a man wouldn't pay attention to it, but what could one expect from FF writing? Her curls of coppered gold, which is a stylistically wrong description, but who cared, were tied in a high ponytail and bouncing with her steps.

"What kind of story is it?" She asked jollily, and he quickly closed the door.

But not before one of the sounds we cannot describe here for rating purposes had reached Wren's hearing. Heady blush splashed on her cheeks, and she dashed in the nearest room. Thorin followed, already capable of chuckling over it. FF characters always chuckle.

"Maiar help me, that was embarrassing." Wren sat down on a low stylish li-lo. Everything was very stylish in that flat.

'It's called a futon, you overbearing cow,' Thorin thought, remembered that a punishment would come for such insolence, and immediately the side door opened, and Loki sauntered in.

'Well, that is just cruel,' thought Thorin, watching his ginger perk up.

"Loki Laufeyson," the cursed dark haired git bestowed them both with a low bow, snake like smirk on his thin lips. "But you already know that, Mister Oakenshield, don't you? We still haven't had a chance to meet in that wonderful crossover we are in, but I have met your charming wife."

He quickly walked up to Wren, and she placed her small hand in his stretched one. Thorin watched the skinny prick slowly lower his lips to Wren's knuckles.

"And what are you doing here, Mr. Laufeyson?" Thorin sneered. 'Cursed Writer...' he thought, and cautiously looked around watching out for more falling objects. Though the presence of the dark haired beanstalk was the punishment most cruel.

"He is the adopted brother of my remote cousin, Thor Odinson," Wren suddenly answered, and showed Thorin her mobile. "I was looking for you to tell you that apparently my 'cousin" Thor is coming with his fiancee, and according to this email they will 'take their usual bedroom.'"

* * *

The dinner was awkward at best. Thor was bragging about how much he enjoyed AUs since he didn't have to wear his armour, Jane had her nose buried in some papers she placed near her plate with the lamb roast that would not be described here since many readers find extensive descriptions of food discomforting, but should be mentioned here as part of praise to Wren as the mistress of the house and the victim of patriarchal values in society. Loki was smiling, once again serpent like, while Wren had her eyes down into the plate, poking her food.

"How would it even work? How are you her cousin?" Thorin suddenly barked, and Thor, from now on called Odinson here, to avoid confusion with names, froze with his mouth half open.

"Our darling Wren here is predominantly Irish in Modern AUs," Loki answered for his brother, "Which means she is vaguely descended from Vikings, while we are vaguely Vikings. It makes perfect sense to me." The bleeping Norseman picked up a piece of carrot, roasted in herbs and chives, and gracefully placed it in his mouth with his elegant pale hand.

'Damn the author's obsession of the git's hands,' Thorin swore internally and snarled, "You are not a vaguely Viking. You are a Frost Giant." Wren choked on the water she was drinking clearly to pretend to be busy. Jane Foster's eyes flew up from her papers. Loki slowly lowered his fork on the plate.

"Well, that is just racist, my friend. It is fanfiction, there are liberties. And you are a Dwarf, and yet right now you are _almost _the same height as me." Two men locked their eyes in a death glare match.

"Exactly, _almost_ the same. I am an inch taller," Thorin growled.

"Enough!" Wren's voice was authoritative, and everyone looked at her. "Enough of this! It is clearly a forced love triangle trope, and it's ridiculous. Loki isn't even interested in me, and in the aforementioned crossover he is only after me because he thinks I am Sigyl!"

"You are Sigyl, darling. I know my wife when I see her!" The sound of the glass popping and shattering in Thorin's hand made everyone now whip their heads towards him. He grabbed a napkin and started wrapping it around his hand.

"Even if I am Sygil," Wren raised her voice higher, "It doesn't matter. I am not your love interest in that story anyroad! Jane here has more stores with you than me. And some of them are amazing M rated smut!" Another pop and crack sounded deafening in the room. Now everyone looked at the extensively bleeding hand of the God of Thunder.

"This is where you say 'oopsie daisy', Wren," Jane gave Wren an exasperated look, and started bandaging Odinson's hand with a stylish cloth napkin, matching the table cloth.

"I think I'll skip pudding," Thorin got up, his now bandaged hand fisted tightly.

* * *

Thorin sat in most likely his bed, only in his PJ bottoms, because he couldn't find the top. 'Damn the author's obsession with my chest,' he internally sneered, and wasn't even surprised when the lamp on his bedside table rocked and fell painfully scraping his upper arm. 'Daft bleep,' Thorin continued rebelliously. The painting above him wavered, but thankfully Wren came in the bedroom from the ensuite bathroom. She was wearing inappropriately short nightdress. It was all lace and straps and was clearly uncomfortable to sleep in.

"I couldn't find any decent clothes," Wren whined. "Apparently we are too stylish for jersey in this AU." Thorin kept his mouth shut, clearly signalling he was very, very dischuffed. "Oh, are you pouting, love?" Wren climbed under the duvet and pressed into him. Thorin told himself he had to last at least five seconds in his righteous indignation and immediately pulled her in. Damn the lace and her little… uhem… peeking through, and the curve of the waist... and the shapely delicate hips. Was it OK to mention hips? Apparently. Thorin would love to think about more risque stuff, but damn the ratings!

"I am worried," Wren mumbled into his chest and nuzzled him. Of course she did. People always nuzzle people in FF.

"What about?" Thorin was industriously trying not to think about her bleep, and bleeping her bleep.

"We are still here, and you already had a bout of jealousy over alleged cheating. Which means it's not the end of it..." Wren mumbled sleepily and was immediately out.

Thorin stared in the blissfully serene freckled face of his wife. What was wrong with that woman?! Dropping this bomb on him, and look at her! Sleeping, for dandelions and marigolds' sake!

And regarding 'it isn't the end of it,' all he could say was... bleeping bleep!

* * *

My writing blog: **kolmakov dot ca**.

I will be describing my writing process, Me Without You will soon be turned into an independent novel, and it will be fun creating my own fantasy world. Come on this journey with me!

I will show my oak and wren tattoos, will gladly take prompts and will just be happy to meet you, my darlings!

* * *

Find and follow me on Twitter: **katyakolmakov**

Hashtag for "convince me the winter is over" is #convincemewinter

Let's make it happen, my duckies!

* * *

**CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

**(a novel inspired by my story on fanfiction dot net,**

**summary in my profile)**

Release date on Amazon:

July 15, 2015

Available for pre-order!

If you pre-ordered the book, fill in the form on my blog (**kolmakov dot ca**) to receive an exclusive 1000+ word piece written based on your specifications!

There will be **giveaways** on **Goodreads** and **Amazon**!

I'll keep you posted!


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